


upon a rush of blood to the head

by queenofthestarrrs



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, F/M, Ishval Civil War, Pre-Canon, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 16:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13814910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthestarrrs/pseuds/queenofthestarrrs
Summary: Riza shutters, and she tells herself it is because of the cold of the desert night.





	upon a rush of blood to the head

The last of the embers are starting to fade away into the dirt as Maes gets up to leave. Dust and ashes cling to the bottom of his white shawl, and the dirt billows into mushroom clouds as he shifts from foot to foot. 

Everyone else in their unit had already gone to sleep, or at least to the tents, if sleep continued to elude them. In a place like this, that latter was much more common; even if your conscience was at ease, it was hard to sleep with the constant sounds of wailing and gunfire. Most nights ended like this.Their comrades have huddled up in their tents, trying to block out the striking violence of the day. Roy, Maes, and Riza, their tiny and motley crew, huddle around a fire to avoid the biting cold of the desert night. They don’t speak much, but the presence of another body, of a friend, who will not question what you’ve done, is a comfort. They don’t have much here in Ishval, practically nothing at all. Riza takes this time as her one guilty pleasure. 

“It looks like it’s going to be another hot one tomorrow,” Maes sets his eyes on the distance, where their camp has been set up for weeks. He pushes his glasses further up his face, and Riza notices his knuckles are stark white. 

Roy retrieves his sack from behind him and begins to rummage through it. His thick shag of dark hair falls in front of his eyes , the effect striking, as he shifts through rations, spare gloves, and an unloaded revolver. It was a strange to see Roy’s hands on a gun, to imagine him pulling the trigger. Riza shivers and blames it on the chill of the night. 

“It’s a desert, Maes,” Roy says softly as he continues to pull things out of his bag. He balances the revolver haphazardly on his knee, and there is a pit growing in her stomach. Although she tries, she cannot imagine Roy using it. His hands are far from clean, but they aren’t calloused, aren’t hardened like hers are. She cannot imagine him shooting anyone, watching the life drain out of someone. Fire is much cleaner, much less emotional. Something is simply there, and then it is not; a pile of ashes remain in its place. That suits Roy. “It’s always hot in the desert.” 

There isn’t much bite behind the statement, but Maes rolls his eyes anyway. He keeps shuffling his feet in the dirt. The particles are starting to tickle against Riza’s nose, and she fights the urge to sneeze. “Enjoy your smoke, Roy.” 

With that, Maes heads through the city streets, over gaping holes and a few scattered belongings, abandoned as people tried to flee, towards the camps. His hands are shoved into his uniform pockets. She imagines that he keeps his gun holstered near his right for easy access. She also knows him well enough to know that he’s running his thumb over a worn picture of Gracia in his left. It’s something that he does to comfort himself. She notices the way his shoulders dip and his chin tilts higher whenever he puts his hand in his left pocket. She tries to imagine the comfort of having something to go back to when all this ends, if it ever ends. 

, Riza thinks to herself, as she watches him move towards disappearing into the horizon. Yet, neither her nor Roy make a move to follow after him as they rise to their feet. Instead, they linger, shifting their weight from hip to hip as the dust billows around their shawls instead. She suspects that he would want that, that he knows what happens after the fire has been extinguished for the night. 

“So you’ve started to smoke again,” she says, not taking her eyes off Maes, who is becoming smaller and smaller as he walks briskly away from them. “Have you told your aunt?” 

Roy finally finds what he’s looking for. Out of his knapsack, he brandishes a small, white, half-empty package of cigarettes, the brand that they receive each week with the rations. He carefully plucks one out and pushes it between his lips. He pushes the rest back into the box for good measure before placing it back in his bag. Roy snaps softly, a small spark dancing up to light the edge of the cigarette. He inhales deeply as it burns and lets out a steady stream of smoke as he finishes cleaning his bag. 

It’s methodical, much like everything he does. 

“You know, for a second, you sounded just like your father.” Roy takes another drag of his cigarette. He frowns as he grabs it out of his mouth to inspect it. He shrugs and pinches the filter between his thumb and forefinger as he blows smoke up into the sky. There aren’t any stars out. The smoke from burning fires and a dust storm have concealed the night sky for weeks. It’s a strangely isolating effect, as if they are alone out here in the desert. 

“God forbid it.” Riza drops her voice a few octaves lower. She speaks softly and slowly. ““Now, Mr. Mustang, I cannot condone smoking within my household. How can I expect you to be devoting yourself to your studies when you are the whim of your nicotine addiction?” 

Roy laughs at the near perfect intimation of his former teacher. It’s hollow and jaded and soft, but it is a laugh nonetheless. Riza rewards herself with an uncharacteristic smile. 

Smoking, surprisingly, makes him look younger. She knows that it’s her mind just playing tricks on her. He looks the same as he does when she sees him during their days, hagared and burnt under the sun’s rays. It’s just the mental picture of him as young man, on her front porch, puffing away in the evening. He used to have his sisters send him half used packs that they would collect from their clients behind his aunt’s back. With his student stipend, that was the only way he would have been able to afford the small guilty habit he afforded himself. He would have his notebooks splayed open in front of the house, scattered across the unpainted wood, and he would continue to study them intently as the smoke drifted in ribbons above his head. He always smiled at her sweetly as he glances at her staring from the sitting room window. 

Her own smile begins to fade with the memory. 

“Do you think that there’s a point to all this?” She leans in closer to him. It reeks of cheap cigarette smoke and the tang of lingering sweat. She does not seem to mind too much. It feels good to be this close to another living being, even better to a person that she has known for so long.“To all this death?” 

He pulls one last drag out of his cigarette before he flicked it to the ground. He reaches out and puts heavy hand on Riza’s cheek. It’s dry and soft, and she leans into it in a way that reminds her of stolen days in Roy’s room as teenagers. It is a sense of familiarity that feels both anchoring and strange in an Ishvalan street. 

They both know the answer, and neither one would say it. 

 

Instead, Roy leans in to kiss her. She feels tense, alarmed. She’s not entirely sure of the point, of why they’re doing this, the point of why they do anything. If she’s judged it correctly, it should almost be time for the changing of the guard. The new battalions that are scheduled for the rest of the night’s watch should be soon marching their way from camp. The rushing guilt of risk, the risk of losing everything they had just so tenuously agreed to work for only a few weeks before, flooded her system. He tastes like cigarettes and the stale beer that they had been nursing by the campfire. It’s an unpleasant kiss for an unpleasant time, nothing like the sweet kisses they shared in their idyllic summers. It’s bold of them, two uniformed officers, to be fraternizing in the streets. 

 

But if she knew anything of him, it was that Roy was bold. 

She finds her hands working their way up his undershirt, hands slipping over solidness of his muscle and the scars that dotted it to rest on his hips. They’re much firmer than she remembered them being as a girl or even after her father’s funeral. It seems like even if they live in a nightmare, Roy himself has become more real, more tangible, more solid. Riza pulls them closer as Roy lets out an appreciative moan. She could be bold as well. 

They linger like that for a bittersweet moment before Riza pulls them apart. She turns swiftly to reach for her own knapsack and rifle off the ground. She slings it over her shoulder as places her rifle strap in a similar position. She shrugs to make the weight more comfortable and allows the weapon to settle into her hands. They trace over the worn parts of the wood. It’s a familiar feeling, and she cannot help to draw comparisons to the way that she felt with her hands on Roy’s hips. 

“Major, I believe it’s time we return to the camps. We both were assigned to the early morning rounds.” 

Bewildered and hazy-eyed, Roy gives her questioning look. She flicks her pupils, gesturing to the corner where the midnight rounds are starting to approach the street. There are hints of billowing white cloaks rounding the corner. Tiredly, Roy lets his shoulders dip. There’s a heavy sense of regret in his motions. This was their life now. This was going to be the price they had to pay, and to continue to pay, in order to even have the smallest chance of making a difference. The weight of that decision felt like waves, striking him at the strangest moments. 

The men round the corner and immediately halt at attention. They don’t look particularly old to Riza, and she inspects each one to see if she had gone to the Academy with them. Finding unfamiliar faces, she wonders if she would have even recognized them if she did not them. There was something about this place, about the profound tragedy that changed people. 

“Yes, cadet, I believe that would be wise.” He clears his throat as he scrambles for his own bag. He stomps out the last remaining embers of his cigarette with a quiet but firm press of his boot. “At ease, gentlemen.”

Lazily, the men practically fall out of attention. Their hands hit their sides with a thud as they continue down the street, dodging bodies in near complete silence while they head towards the bulk of the fighting. The soldiers look practically as dead as the corpses that they step over. 

Riza shutters as the two of them turn towards the camp. They adjust their straps and button up their shawls. Out of habit, Riza loads her weapon and places her thumb in the worn grove next to the safety. With a final exhale, Roy rolls back his shoulders begins to trace Maes’ footsteps as they had towards the camp themselves. The fire has burnt out, and he has accepted that he again becomes Major Mustang. Riza, Cadet Hawkeye really, palms her rifle and begins to follow, lips still tingling from moments before. 

A star escapes the thick fog and shines brightly across the white tents and sun-bleached and broken structures. It’s almost beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> according to the creator's notes, roy was originally supposed to be a smoker. i just couldn't not right something about that fact.
> 
> also the live action movie totally pushed me back down the royai rabbit hole, and i have no regrets.


End file.
